


Gone

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 23:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8554681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'Hey! Could you do an angsty fic with George & an OC? Like a hurt/comfort/tearful/life-destroying fic?' Might be a bit tame but wanted to try writing ambiguously!





	

George stops at the entrance to the flat, and lowers his key, trying to steel himself. It won’t hurt any less the longer he waits, but something in him is praying that the door will open and you’ll be stood there – eyes wide and bright, mouth in that perfect, panted ‘O’ of surprise to see him.

The door stays closed. He takes a deep breath, unlocks it, and steps inside.

It’s musty – he’s been away a little too long, and with your… absence, you haven’t been here to air it out. The others could’ve been here, now, with him – Paul had asked first, half-supportive, half-desperate for gossip, and then Ringo, quietly and gently. Even John had dragged him aside after practise and had, subtly for the rhythm guitarist, asked if he needed help – but George had refused. He wished, a little, that he hadn’t. He feels like a time-traveller treading the age-forgotten ruins of Merseyside.

“Hello?”

His voice doesn’t echo – it is absorbed by the emptiness of the apartment, and he closes his eyes before he steps into the living room and his stomach churns.

There is enough here to mark your presence – but there is enough gone to mark your departure, and he sinks into the sofa where he spent so many hours holding you as you listened to the wireless, stroking your soft hair. Paulie would be _furious_ by now, he feels it, kicking stuff across the room and asking why you’d gone. Secret side to the bassist. John would’ve been the same – or despondent, thoughtlessly clueless. Even Ringo would’ve felt more than this… this emptiness.

He has nothing to do but compare himself to the others to see where he has gone wrong, but he has _everything_ to do, so he stands up, and passes on into the kitchen.

It’s all so clean. You knew you wouldn’t be coming back – he reaches out. Dust. Dust though. The dishes are scrubbed, the tea towels are washed, but there is dust. So much dust. He closes his eyes and goes to write your name in it – such a childish move. He gets as far as the second letter and stops. Too childish. He opens the fridge. Cleared out.

Why not the bedroom too? To complete the tour of mistakes.

He stops by the bathroom. There’s nothing – of this room, the items were perhaps the most personal, and they’re all gone – he opens the medicine cupboard. An empty jar of perfume. He sniffs it to see if it smells like you, but it doesn’t. Or does he just not remember what scent you had as he held you? He isn’t sure any more, but a lump rises in his throat that a stranger could’ve left this here, and worse, that the stranger was you all along, and then he closes his eyes.

The bedroom is just as perfectly neat except for the bed – on side is still pulled down. You must’ve forgotten, as you fled – the wardrobe is empty, and he waves his hand almost robotically through the ghosts of your clothing before sitting on the end of the bed.

His last words to you – those simple words – echo in his head, and he begins to sob and sob, alone in the Liverpool apartment. At least the bed smells like you.


End file.
